A restless wind –
South-west, heavy with salt
And smells of seaweed, storm-stripped from far-off islands –
Sets my mind flapping like luffed sails,
Every thought straining at its shrouds. Holding, just.
One rogue gust
And all could be torn loose,
Sent madly swirling miles inland
To wind up wound around
The cracked, barbed boughs of a gale-wrought pine
Way out of reach
And shredded beyond repair.
Back from the wilds of north-west Brittany with a notebook full of rough drafts, and a car full of sand and baguette crumbs. Sure signs of a good trip. N.